


sunflowers

by lilium_parvum



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Foreign Language, France (Country), M/M, Spain, aot - Freeform, jeanmarco, just really cute its happy i promise no death wooo, snk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 16:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilium_parvum/pseuds/lilium_parvum
Summary: "Marco pulled away.  He was pink; pink with innocence and lust and all things that are rosy and wonderful in the world.  His breathing was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as Jean’s.'Um, can I take you out to dinner?  Tomorrow night?' Marco asked, gently biting his lip.Jean was speechless.  Holy shit.  He didn't even know what language to respond in.  What was language?  Could he even speak again when there were much, much better options?"Jean, a Frenchman studying abroad in Spain, has the undeniable pleasure to meet Marco, a Spanish man dusted with freckles and sunlight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> henlo lovelies
> 
> i back with ths fic. it's not sad or yuri! on ice. it's happy and shingeki no kyojin and jeanmarco and features cool stuff involving spain and love. yeeeeeee! shoutout to my friends socorro and alejandro for helping me with my spanish, i am just a humble beginner to such a stunning language. yeet. please enjoy! if you don't then tell me why yeeee
> 
> thanks and much love and godspeed
> 
> lily hannah
> 
> P.S. will now be adding trigger warnings to my fics with sensitive content. this one doesn't particularly have any, but there is profane language.

Summers in Andalucía were sticky, hot, and magnificent. The region seemed to radiate heat and light and color--surreal, blinding colors. The colors there were visible, sure, but you could hear them, too. And taste them. The feelings felt there bred love, passion, and excitement. Andalucía had that je ne sais quoi, which is exactly what lead Jean to study abroad there in the first place.

He’d lived in Bordeaux, France for nearly his entire life. The river was constant in his life, really. His parents stayed home often but rarely found good work. They were poor and, consequently, never traveled. So, Jean buried himself in his books. He excelled in school, uncharacteristic of his cocky, punk attitude. Regardless, he’d earned himself a scholarship at Universidad de Córdoba España studying to be a teacher.

The only issue: Jean’s Spanish was grade A for awful.

He spoke sloppily, mixed up words, forgot articles, and frequently mixed words up. Simply understanding baristas on his morning coffee commute was a struggle. Listening and speaking were his only issues--he could read Spanish decently, but just actually forming sentences and understanding in real time left him thinking hard and responding slowly. Accepting a scholarship there was the craziest choice he’d ever made.

Luckily, recruiters for the university spoke English. Jean’s mother was originally from Canada, so she taught him both English and French, a useful combination in Europe.

A cold breeze wove its way through the opened windows of his apartment. It wasn’t particularly icy, just a small break from the unrelenting heat outside. Jean preferred the windows open here, something he wasn’t a fan of back in Bordeaux. Here, it was warm. He loved the way that the burning sun shone in through his single bedroom, creating intricate patterns on his furniture and making summer a feeling, a state of mind. Jean didn’t have any classes and, remarkably, had nothing to really study for, since classes weren’t starting until the next week. He decided to treat himself--draw up a bath, light candles, and listen to Bal-Musette music. It was a pasttime deep-rooted in his upbringing; he’d hear the street musicians make their fingers dance on the accordion.

He let his eyes close and allowed his simple, blue bathroom to fade out of his mind. Jean drifted into a state of pure bliss, letting the hot water rest still against his bare skin. He never fell asleep, just simply delved into his own mind.

Then, the doorbell rang. Jean sat up hesitantly, turning the music off from his phone and listening closely. It rang again. He stood up and grabbed the towel lying next to the tub. He dried off and wrapped it around his waist. The doorbell had ceased ringing, but he still peered out of his door. There was a man, tanned and dotted with freckles, walking from door to door with flyers tucked under his arm. Jean had seen him around campus before, carrying a guitar and a small Fjallraven Kanken backpack with him.

“¡Ven aquí!” Come here. Jean called, hoping that his poor Spanish was at least somewhat understandable to the clear native a few yards from him. The man, of course, did not notice. Jean cursed his luck and said it about louder now, a bit more angrily.

The man turned around. He looked puzzled at first but soon chuckled a bit, briskly walking to Jean. “¿Cómo puedo ayudarte?” How can I help you?

Jean furrowed his brows, comprehending the words. “¿Habla inglés?” Do you speak English?

The man smiled. “Yes, a bit. I am called Marco. Can I help you with something? You called for me.” Marco. What a nice name.

“Why did you ring my doorbell?”

“Oh! I am from the Spain music program and we are, um, planning an event. I am just asking people to come. Why are you only sticking your head out of the door?”

Jean’s face heated up. “It's just because I’m only wearing a towel, and you're kind of a stranger, and I don't like you that way. I mean, in France it's not that big a deal, but I don't know about Spain and--”

Marco laughed. It was tangible, radiant even; it seemed to stretch throughout the entire city of Córdoba. His laughter was deep and breathy, living for itself. Jean frowned. “What? Is something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s just--” A quiet chuckle. “You’re just funny when you’re nervous like that. Your face is red like a tomato.” Marco took a flyer from his own stack and a pen from his t-shirt pocket. He wore simple, loose jeans and a short, rolled-up sleeves white tee with a pen pocket. He scribbled something on the back of it and handed it to Jean. “I’ve got to go, but the fair is next week. I hope to see you there, Jean!” With those words, Marco winked a bit. His smile was as wide as the sea as he waved goodbye. Jean stared at him with disbelief and a bit of awe at the sheer allure of this man.

Jean watched Marco leave. He kept his eye on the back of Marco’s neck and the place where his shirt rode up in the back, exposing his lower back. Mon dieu. Jean thought he’d lost his mind. Even as he shut the door, Marco’s grin and his ever-so-slightly tousled black hair couldn’t leave Jean’s mind. He didn’t want to go back into the bath or listen to his jaded French music and reminisce. He wanted to be in Marco’s arms. Even that night, after cleaning his home wall-to-wall to try and get a rest from his thoughts, Marco was the only thing that lulled him to sleep.

He awoke to the familiar feeling of sunlight peeking in through his (still open) bedroom window, making the burnt orange walls of his room seem to light on fire with the sun. Heat danced around him, grabbed him by his hands, and forced him awake. “This goddamn apartment is always so hot.” Jean stated, huffing as he threw on a light black tee and black jeans. His style wasn’t particularly colorful or unique, but it suited him well.

Jean glanced at the flyer lying on his bedside table. He picked it up with one hand and scanned it. The event was going to be a festival celebrating Spanish music, art, and literature. It seemed interesting, so Jean turned the paper over to look for more information. He didn’t find any about the festival, but instead found something better: Marco’s phone number, neatly written in blue pen with his name in cursive next to it.

Oh my God.

Jean let it sink in for a moment. Marco, full name Marco Joaquín Bodt, had left his full name and number specifically for Jean. Of course, Marco would have to learn that Jean was not easy to fall for. He was stubborn, cocky, and ready to fight anyone standing in his way. And, the most embarrassing of them all, he was inexperienced. Jean had kissed before, sure, but nothing more than a quick peck. But Marco, in Jean’s mind, had the eyes with the glimmer of someone who knew what they were doing--the inner workings of human pleasure. Jean shivered.

Nervously, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the phone number into the message box. He hesitantly typed a message to let Marco know that he would be coming to the festival.

Within five minutes, Marco responded. (Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! I cannot wait to see u there!) Jean smiled, quickly typing back a laughing face emoji and biting his lip.

Jean learned, from the two hour long text conversation they’d had, that Marco was twenty-three years old, his favorite color was yellow, and once he'd gotten lost in this field of sunflowers when he was a kid (his mother was furious when he'd finally come home) and listened to the wind for hours. Every little detail, intricacy of Marco, kept Jean guessing and grinning until Marco had to leave for work. But Jean didn't worry that he didn't want to talk ever again, because Marco had sent him a selfie of himself in his work outfit before leaving and typed, Besos!

From that day on, the two talked every day for at least an hour. They called on the phone, texted, and even video-chatted once, although Marco kept hiding his face from the camera out of embarrassment. “I look funny!” he'd chuckle. 

Jean wanted to tell him that he didn’t; that he was a ray of sun, more breathtaking than the trees in his home letting the light trickle between their jaded branches. But, all Jean could muster was a, “No you don’t.” Marco smiled, however, so Jean figured he was making progress.

-

The next day was the festival. The university was aglow with what felt like a trillion colors, bouncing and giggling around in the art and booths and music. It was the most vibrant sight Jean had ever witnessed in all twenty-four years of his life.

Marco soon came bounding down the crowded walkway, wearing khakis and a red t-shirt emblazoned with “La Tradicionales Magníficos de España”. He seemed to light up the moment his eyes met Jean’s, and he nearly dropped his clipboard on the walk over. “¡Bienvenidos a mi proyecto, Jean!” Welcome to my project! He beamed.

“You did this yourself?” Jean looked around, bewildered.

Marco grinned before speaking. “Um, yes. But I had some help from the, no, my peers? I think that is how to say it.”

“That sounds correct to me!”

“Jean, would you like to walk around with me today?” Marco’s eyes met his feet, and Jean flushed a brilliant shade of red. He didn't have to think about it.

“¡Sí!” 

They walked the entire length of the fair, stopping to watch the flamenco dancing and to taste the traditional food being exhibited. It really was a lovely event; it preserved the history and rich culture of Spain. Colors and sights swirled around Marco and Jean in fluid patterns, dancing across their lashes like a painting. And sometimes, Marco would touch the back of Jean’s arm, and Jean would every-so-slightly take his hand. But it was short-lived because Marco was so easily distracted by booths.

As the end of the day approached, Marco looked at Jean. He seemed a bit anxious; Marco had something to say. He took Jean’s hand and met his eyes. “Can I show you something?”

Jean looked puzzled. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Marco took his hand and dragged him through the dwindling crowd, shades of red and gold flying past him. He pulled Jean on a walk, really, to a remote spot about ten minutes from the university. Sunset was approaching; The sky was just beginning to flash pink. Marco released his grip on Jean as they reached a medium-sized field of sunflowers. Jean looked around and began to walk inside of it. “Wow,” he glanced back at Marco. “This is so beautiful.”

“Come on, let’s get lost.” Marco gripped onto Jean, only this time more delicately, lacing his fingers with Jean’s and giving him a light squeeze. It made Jean’s heart leap and his skin crave more contact. “Can I do this?” Marco asked.

“Do what? Touch me? Yeah, yeah, please do. I mean like, yes you can, don't take that--ah, fuck.”

Marco giggled and squeezed Jean’s hand again. “Alright,” He lead Jean deeper into the sunflower field until he stopped. “I would spend afternoons here. It's very beautiful. I thought you would like them. I like you,” For once, Marco blushed. He’d seemed to have shed his confident air in exchange for a hint of innocence. Jean, of course, was as red as a tomato.

Jean gulped, his heat in his stomach. “I like you, too.” He meant it. Then, Marco put his hands on Jean’s face. Jean had never noticed that Marco was so much taller than him, but now he saw it. It was nice. Marco’s hands on his cheeks were nice. His lips were nice, no, incredible, against Jean’s, parted just enough to warrant a taste. Jean kissed him back and pushed his chin gently into Marco’s.

Then it escalated; Marco licked Jean’s bottom lip. He allowed his tongue to explore Jean’s mouth, gentle as a morning vow. It set Jean rattling, internally unable to collect his thoughts (Ohmygod this is making out I’m making out with someone and this is great and OOHoH my GOD he is so HOT holy shiiiiiit!) Somewhere in the heat of the moment, Marco let out a growl and tugged on Jean’s hair. Holy shit. Jean hoped that it meant Marco was enjoying making out (holy shit!) as much as he was.

Marco pulled away. He was pink; pink with innocence and lust and all things that are rosy and wonderful in the world. His breathing was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as Jean’s.

“Um, can I take you out to dinner? Tomorrow night?” Marco asked, gently biting his lip.

Jean was speechless. Holy shit. He didn't even know what language to respond in. What was language? Could he even speak again when there were much, much better options?

Jean pressed a kiss to Marco’s cheek. “Oui,”

Marco smiled. His freckles matched the stars in the sky.

\--

The next day was, to Jean, a long, drawn-out wait for the most exciting and nervewracking date of his life. Marco was someone he could tell would fit him like a puzzle; He rose like the sun during the day but by night he was the night sky. Everything about him resonated through the earth. He was electric, Jean decided, but not in the way that you’d say a character was. He was electric because he was real. Not a character. Real.

Jean danced around the house nearly all day. He found that Stromae put him in the proper mood. The dancing-around-the-apartment-in-his-underwear-mood. The he-may-just-be-falling in-love-mood. He opened all of the windows and took the longest bath he’d ever taken.

Then, it was two hours before the date. Jean rushed into his room and scanned his closet. Suddenly, he hated everything he owned. Marco would hate me in this, oh God, he thought, tossing outfit after outfit on his bedroom floor. Was this a formal date? Should he dress up?

Eventually, Jean settled on a copper-colored, short-sleeved button up and and a clean pair of khaki shorts. He tied a white hoodie around his shoulders to be prepared if the setting was more casual than what he’d dressed for.

According to Marco’s texts, Marco would be there to grab Jean at 7:00PM. Location: a surprise.

Jean combed his hair back, spritzed himself with a hint of cheap cologne, and waited to hear the faint tapping of Marco’s soft fingers against his door, the calming sighs of his speech, his half-open eyes meeting Jean’s eyes, lips, chest--No. Stop. Jean pulled these thoughts out of his mind. He was closer to this moment than he’d ever imagined he’d be.

Knock.

It wasn’t soft. It was loud and startling. Jean opened the door. Marco stood at his doorstep dressed in jeans and a Lana Del Rey tee shirt.

“You look handsome, Jean.” Marco grinned. He looked Jean up and down for a moment, and Jean hoped his cheeks weren’t beet red.

“Have you seen yourself?’ Jean muttered. Marco let out a dry chuckle and took Jean’s hand.

“Vámonos, cariño.”

\--

It wasn’t until they’d been seated at the restaurant, hazily seeing each other in candleight, that Jean learned what that meant. The restaurant wasn’t particularly fancy--it was a small Italian deli with dinner specials. Sure, Jean looked a bit odd, but the atmosphere of the place was welcoming. It smelled like bread and warmth and all of the things he saw in Marco across the table, the flames lighting the gold rings in his eyes. “Okay, okay, okay. So earlier, you called me that name. Cari enyo or something like that. What does it mean?” He asked as he raised a fork of spaghetti to his lips.

Marco answered with a grin. “Cariño? It’s kind of like a cute term. I think it English you’d say sweetheart, or so.”

The blush creeping on Jean’s face was vivid. “Well, now I need one for you!” Jean stuffed his face full of pasta and, when he’d swallowed it, he spoke again. “Mon chou? That means sweetie, sort of.”

Marco was flushed now, too. “It’s lovely, cariño!” In reality, it was more than that and beyond. It was the fact that Jean could call him something new. Marco imagined the way Jean would curl up with him, tangled in blankets and maybe even some of his sweatpants, and kiss his cheek and laugh and smile. And then he said it. “I think I love you.”

Jean was taken aback. “What?”

“Um, I-I.. Te amo. I love you.”

As if Jean could’ve gotten any more red. He, of course, loved Marco too. He thought. It was just the way that he’d never get tired of the glances, smiles, laughs, discussions; They’d talk for hours and never get bored. They’d disagree but never get angry.

“I love you too. Je t’aime,” Jean said. And Marco smiled.

Somehow, that night, they ended up curled up in Jean’s sheets. Marco ran his finger’s through Jean’s hair, catching his breath. He released a shaky sigh. Jean sat up for a moment, the moonlight seeping in through the blinds onto the burnt orange walls. He heard his Bal-Musette music and Marco’s quiet hums.

Marco was a sunflower in that moment. He was gold. It was as if he radiated love from every place on his body--every freckle, curl, or smile--and Jean was just observing from below. And God, what a view.


End file.
